idleness, of crime we
might call it (but that the chronicler of worldly matters had best be
chary of applying hard names to acts which young men are doing in the
world every day), the gentle widowed lady, mother of Lord Kew, could but
keep aloof, deploring the course upon which her dear young prodigal had
entered; and praying with that saintly love, those pure supplications,
with which good mothers follow their children, for her boy's repentance
and return. Very likely her mind was narrow; very likely the precautions
which she had used in the lad's early days, the tutors and directors
she had set about him, the religious studies and practices to which she
would have subjected him, had served only to vex and weary the young
pupil, and to drive his high spirit into revolt. It is hard to convince
a woman perfectly pure in her life and intentions, ready to die if need
were for her own faith, having absolute confidence in the instruction
of her teachers, that she and they (with all their sermons) may be doing
harm. When the young catechist yawns over his reverence's discourse,
who knows but it is the doctor's vanity which is enraged, and not Heaven
which is offended? It may have been, in the differences which took place
between her son and her, the good Lady Walham never could comprehend
the lad's side of the argument; or how his Protestantism against her
doctrines should exhibit itself on the turf, the gaming-table, or the
stage of the opera-house; and thus but for the misfortune under which
poor Kew now lay bleeding, these two loving hearts might have remained
through life asunder. But by the boy's bedside; in the paroxysms of
his fever; in the wild talk of his delirium; in the sweet patience
and kindness with which he received his dear nurse's attentions; the
gratefulness with which he thanked the servants who waited on him;
the fortitude with which he suffered the surgeon's dealings with
his wounds;--the widowed woman had an opportunity to admire with an
exquisite thankfulness the generous goodness of her son; and in those
hours, those sacred hours passed in her own chamber, of prayers, fears,
hopes, recollections, and passionate maternal love, wrestling with
fate for her darling's life;--no doubt the humbled creature came to
acknowledge that her own course regarding him had been wrong; and, even
more for herself than for him, implored forgiveness.

For some time George Barnes had to send but doubtful and melancholy
bull